Taking Number Two For Granted!

Everyone knows that I have no shame here at Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley. I tackle the gamut of topics ranging from sensitive to exploitative to controversial. This week is no different as I tackle the fine art of pooping.

First, a disclaimer: as I'm perpetually eight years old, I've always found the art of pooping to be hilarious, accompanied as it is by delightful sounds and choice odors.

But when does pooping become not so funny? When you're blocked from doing it, that's when.

No, no, I'm not talking about constipation. You kidding me? I'm as regular as a Trump lie.

I'm actually speaking of the boundaries put upon pooping by tragic household disasters.

Last Sunday, my wife awoke to the unpleasant sight of unspeakable things floating in the basement. The sewage line had backed up. Super! On a Sunday! Even superer! And we couldn't poop! The superest!

Disheartened, I knew right then that chili was off the menu.

So, I held on as long as I could, but come noon time, my bowels started bitching. My wife suggested running up to the local convenience store.

I said, "No way! Everyone who goes in there is sick!"

Finding the right, relaxing, quiet public pooping hole is a problem. I have shy bowels. I need to be alone to complete my task. After much agonizing internal debate, I ruled out numerous venues and settled on the grocery store. The john is located in the back, is big, and relatively clean. Most of the time.

Now pooping in public poses an even larger problem in this Covid scary world. Touching things I usually wouldn't  touch even in a pre-Covid world was bad enough. But wouldn't you know it...some guy decided to join me in the stall next door.

Uh-oh.

To make matters worse, my bowels locked up as I tried to figure out what the snuffling, shuffling mystery man looked like and why he had decided to torture me. And then his coughing began. Constantly. No doubt sick. Plus I'm damn sure he wasn't wearing a mask behind closed doors.

My best bet was to try and ride him out. Nobody likes to meet fellow poopers outside the stalls of shame. But he stayed the course, a true endurance breaker. Finally...finally...he flushed. But he wasn't done yet. It took him a shockingly long and horrible eleven minutes to dress. Had he stripped down naked? I heard clanks and yanks and mysterious clicks and lotsa rustling. Had he donned a suit of armor? Just what was he up to?

At long last, he leaft. And then the next guy took his place. Giving in to the inevitability of having disgruntled and full bowels, I flushed. Only to notice that the toilet was leaking water at my feet, thus soaking my shoes.

To this day forward, I vow to never take the privilege of pooping for granted again.

Speaking of crappy things, why not give my shameless comedy-mystery, Bad Day in a Banana Hammock a read? Read it proudly on public transportation and laugh your head off even if you don't find it funny. But I guarantee you the looks you get will be priceless.